The Hunger Guy
by Storychan
Summary: What if Katniss were a guy? And Peeta and Gale were girls? And the rest of the Hunger Games cast of characters had been genderflipped as well? How would that change the Games? Potential answers to these burning questions are here. M!Katniss/F!Peeta
1. Chapter 1

The Hunger Guy : A GENDERFLIP of _The Hunger Games _

By: Storychan

Summary: What if Katniss were a guy? And Peeta and Gale were girls? And the entire _Hunger Games _cast of characters was also genderflipped? How would it change the outcome of the Games? Here's a look at potential answers to all those burning questions. M!Katniss/F!Peeta

Chapter 1.

My little brother, Herb Everdeen, with his blonde hair and blue eyes, looked like a sleeping cherub in our dad's arms. I know, it's not the coolest thing for a 12-year-old boy to sleep in the same bed as his father, but, well, we only own one bed. I'm not a girl, so Dad had no problem forcing me to sleep on the floor (the one time he acted commanding, like a normal father).

I don't mind, though. I can rough it. Herb can't. He's one of those sensitive boys who can catch a cold from a mile away and cries harder than the girls in his class when he sees a dead butterfly. There's no way he could sleep on the floor with me. He couldn't handle it. His cat was eyeing me, being the only other creature awake. I'd tried to drown it once. I figured since I was the "man of the house", I could decide how many mouths we had to feed. Herb convinced me otherwise, of course. I feed the cat entrails from my kills all the time. It's the closest bond I have with a girl, even though I'm a sixteen-year-old boy.

Well, I've had ONE close relationship with a human female- my mother. She was a total tomboy, which was good since my dad is so girly it's pathetic. He made her work in the mines while he played house-husband. It got her killed. My mom was a tiny woman. When a tiny woman tries to fight a mine explosion, the mine explosion always wins.

Since Dad became a gibbering heap after that happened, when I was eleven, I, Tuber Everdeen, became the head of the household.

It wasn't so bad. Protecting and feeding my family is the one thing that makes me happy in this life of penury on the Seam here in District 12. Well, that, and my best friend, Galeina.

My two sources of happiness were about to unite, I thought with a smile as I pulled on an old shirt, pants, and my leather boots that were so worn-in they seemed to remember my feet. I was going hunting with Galeina.

I tiptoed out of our shack, careful not to wake my sleeping brother and father. I wanted to give them every chance to stay in their happy dreams as long as possible- today, the waking world was going to be a sad place. Today was the day of the reaping.

It didn't take long to get to the fence. I'm a skinny guy, so I fit under it pretty easily. Malnutrition has its benefits. Being able to get under the fence and into the woods for food is the one reason I'm OK with having such a girly, thin, untoned body. It doesn't make me cute, but it makes me able to escape the Seam, if only for a little while.

I quickly found my bow, which my less-than-femininely hunting-obsessed mother had made me, under the tree where I'd left it last. As I tromped up the hill to meet Galeina, my cool façade slipped, and I started smiling like a little boy with a new baseball glove. Galeina fit my personality just as well as a glove fit my hand, so it wasn't that unusual. I smiled.

Galeina was there, at our place. She's two years older than me, and she's a lot like my mom. She has the olive skin and grey eyes I inherited from my mother. All Seam families look alike. She has an athletic build, like my mother did. You get that when you spend more time setting snares than staying in the kitchen. She had on a simple shorts outfit- girly clothes would've been hard to hunt in. But that was alright- she looked beautiful anyway. Not that I was checking her out or anything…it was just that the guys at school always talked about how beautiful she looked in boyish clothes. They would point at her like morons, so I had to notice. I don't get why she wastes her time with me…..well, except for the fact that I can help her get food for her two sisters and one brother.

Starvation unites us all.

"Hey, Tuba," said Galeina with a grin. My name's Tuber, but the first time we met, I introduced myself in such a soft voice she'd thought I said "Tuba". Now it's my nickname…if only to her.

"Hey, Galeina," I smiled back. "So….what should we do first? Hunt, fish, or gather?"

"Let's fish," said Galeina, pulling out a fishing pole she had made herself (a more useful skill than something expected, like sewing, if you ask me- you can't eat a thread). "And we can pick strawberries later."

I nodded. Food was food. My real reason for coming out here was to try to forget about the reaping, anyway. While we fished, Galeina started another one of her hysterical rants about the Capitol and its injustices. I let her talk because we're alone. If we discussed this in public, we'd be hanged. I was glad Herb wasn't there to hear it….Being alone with Galeina is the only time I can talk freely. If Herb heard me say something like the things coming out of Galeina's mouth, he might repeat it…..and then I'd have brought down the whole family with me, shooting off my mouth. I'm not that stupid. I'm my family's patriarch, after all, since Dad never seemed up to the job.

I was stunned out of my thoughts when Galeina grabbed my hand. "Tuber," she said seriously. "We could do it, you know."

"Do….what?" I asked. I didn't know where this was coming from.

"Run away from here…live off the land. Maybe have a couple kids," Galeina said softly.

_Kids? _ I thought. _Where did that come from? _I figured Galeina was just feeling sentimental since it was Reaping Day. Either way, she can have her pick of husbands if she wants kids. Just not me- I'm not going to agree to father children, just to have them reaped. The Everdeen name will have to be carried on by Herb. I'm not doing it- besides, Herb is going to grow up to be more handsome than me, anyway. And also, we both know that if I ran away with Galeina, Herb would starve. So would Galeina's sisters and brother. I didn't know what she was thinking.

Lucky for me, Galeina dropped the subject as quickly as she brought it up, probably embarrassed to be caught thinking about something as submissively feminine as motherhood. She's a feminist, after all. She prefers being out in the woods with me to staying in the kitchen.

We didn't talk for a while, just gathered strawberries until late in the day, when I broke the silence, saying, "Galeina, it's getting late. We have to be at the square soon for the reaping."

Galeina nodded. If we didn't show, the Peacekeepers would come for us. We needed to get our trading done before it was time to head over there.

With strawberries, fish, and a squirrel I'd shot when it ran across my path in our hands, we trudged back to the Seam and entered the Hub, the black market where we make most of our money.

Greasy Sam was there, and he traded for our squirrel, throwing it in his cooking pot. He became the owner of a small café in the Hub after he got too old to mine. We like Greasy Sam…..he's the only guy we know always willing to trade for wild dog. It's not like we hunt dogs on purpose, but if you catch one sniffing around in the woods, it can be good eating. Nobody on the Seam would turn down a good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers here in District 12 can be a little more picky. "Once it's in the stew, I'll call it beef," Greasy Sam says with a wink hidden behind his bushy eyebrows. He's a nice old man- I want to be like that if I live long enough to get old.

Next, we headed to the mayor's house. She loves strawberries, so we knew we could count on a trade. That day, his son Max answered the door, wearing a white three-piece suit. It was an expensive one- the suit jacket alone could feed a Seam family for a week. On it was a pin made of pure gold. Galeina's eyes narrowed.

"Nice suit," she said, clearly feeling the sting of the economic gap between Seam kids like us and town guys like him.

"Thank you," said Max. "If I get chosen to go to the Capitol, I want to look handsome, right?"

I wasn't sure if he was serious or not, but either way, I could tell it ticked Galeina off. As if Max's chances of getting reaped were that high! You get put into the reaping lottery every year after you turn twelve. Max was sixteen like me- four years of being a potential tribute meant-what, four slips bearing his name?

But on the Seam, we did _tesserae_- meaning we traded bread and oil for extra slips with our names on them in the reaping pool. I had tens of them, as did Galeina. It was unfair, but it didn't bother me the way it did her.

Maybe because I was around Max more. We were both quiet guys, not a lot of buddies at school, so we often got paired in activities and assignments. We ate lunch together, too, for the same reason, never really talking. That was always alright with me- I'm a man of few words.

I gave Max the strawberries to give to his mom, and then promptly dragged Galeina out of there before she did something stupid. Then I went home to prepare for the reaping.

It was Herb's first, so I helped him get ready- he was wearing one of my old reaping outfits- a little shirt with a clip-on bow tie and slacks. I realized Herb hadn't tucked his shirt in- it made him look like he had a duck's tail.

"Careful, little duck," I chuckled, and pulled him into a hug. I'm not normally a real affectionate guy, but if my name got drawn at the reaping tonight, I might never see Herb again.

Herb pouted, twisting out of my arms restlessly. "Come _on_, Tuber," he whined. "Papa says no being late, 'kay?"

"OK," I smiled. I took a deep breath and walked, hand in hand with Herb, to the square. He trotted off to go stand with the other 12-year-old boys, and I headed to stand with the guys in my year. Madam Mayor came to the podium and started making her yearly reaping speech.

She read the same old story: After a string of disasters destroyed North America, the country of Panem, a Capitol surrounded by 13 districts, rose from its ashes. Then came the Dark Days of rebellion. Districts 1 through 12 were defeated, and District 13 was wiped out entirely. To quash any more rebellions before they started, the Capitol created the Hunger Games- a deathmatch from live TV where one boy and one girl, reaped as tributes from each district, kill each other. The last one left standing gets enough food to feed their District for one year.

Next, he called up our only Hunger Games victor, Haymiss. She's the town drunk, and its least eligible bachelorette. Her name sounds like "Hey, Miss!" and guys yell at it her just to see her turn and fall down. I'm not very confident that the old dingbat will be a good mentor to me if I get reaped. I don't yell at her like the other guys….I just think she's kind of stupid. I mean, shouldn't a woman her age have more class?

I almost snickered when she fell off the stage, drunk as a skunk, while shaking hands with Eddie Trinket.

Eddie Trinket, our representative from the Capitol, had got on stage to pick two District 12 tributes from the reaping lottery. He's a weird-looking guy, like most Capitol men. His hair was pink and his tux was spring green. He was wearing matching eyeliner, too. "Ladies always go first," he joked, like he does every year. "except today! Let's pick a boy tribute, shall we?"

I realized there was a pretty good chance my name would be called. I braced myself as Eddie opened his mouth to speak.

But he didn't call my name.

He called Herb's.


	2. Chapter 2

The Hunger Guy, Chapter 2

By: Storychan

**Hey, everybody! I know I haven't updated in….well, forever LOL**

**There's a good reason for that tho. My dad wouldn't let me bring any of my books with me to college….and there's a good 500 miles between my college and my bookshelf back home. -_- It's hard to write fanfiction for a book you don't have a copy of.**

**But I'm home for the holidays, and one of my college friends told me they really liked this story (Thank you, Jenni, for the idea for Female Peeta's name!) so I'm updating. Yeah that's right, you get to meet Female Peeta this time around. Are you excited?**

**Anyway, enjoy, and don't forget to review!**

**-Storychan**

Once, I was at the Hob and Greasy Sam gave me the last bowl of stew he had to sell that day, and one of the other Seam boys, who was starving, like all of us, decided to fight me for it. He punched me right in the stomach, knocked me straight onto the ground. The impact knocked every wisp of air out of my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, exhale, to do anything.

That's how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as Eddie Trinket's words reverberate around in my skull. _Herbert Everdeen_. That's Herb's full name. Did he _really _just say that? Is this just a nightmare? No, it was plain as day. _Herbert Everdeen. _Shit. Someone, a girl from the Seam, is grabbing me, propping me up, because I'm about to fall, and I feel pathetic. _Man up, Tuber, _I tell myself. I jerk away from the Seam girl. _ A real man stands up by himself and faces reality, _I try to tell myself.

But I'm still in denial. This has to be a mistake. Herb's name was one slip of paper out of thousands! I'd taken all the tesserae, as the man of the house, I hadn't let him take any. The odds were absolutely in his favor. But it hadn't mattered.

Dimly, I hear the crowd muttering to themselves, as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen, because they think this is unfair. And then I see him. He's gone white as a sheet, but my little man is trying to be brave, head held high, fighting back the tears, as he walks, fists clenched, in short, small steps, past me, and I see the back of his button-down shirt sticking out over his short pants, It's this detail, the untucked shirt forming a ducktail, that brings me back to myself.

"Herb!" I cry, and suddenly my muscles are able to move again. "Herb!" I don't have to shove my way past the crowd, because they're making my room for me, somehow, and I reach him just as he's about to take the stage. I shove him behind me, and before I know what I'm even doing, I'm screaming, "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

There's some confusion on the stage. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer in years. In some districts, being reaped is considered an honor, but here, reaping is pretty much synonymous with the word _dying_. Eddie Trinket starts muttering about the volunteering process protocol, but Madam Mayor speaks up sadly and says, "What does it matter?"

She's looking at me with a pained expression. She doesn't know me, but there's a faint glimmer of recognition there. I'm the boy who brings the strawberries. The boy who hangs out with her son on occasion. The boy who, five years ago, stood huddled with his father and brother as she presented him, the oldest child, with a medal of valor. A medal for his mother, who died in the mines. Does she remember that? Does she remember that my mom was the only female miner, that every other family had a _wife _mourning her _husband, _instead of my pathetic excuse for a father who let his wife do the mining for him and now had to mourn her, because he was too weak to let her stay home? "What does it matter?" she repeats softly. "Let him come forward."

Herb is screaming, raging, behind me, pounding his tiny fists into my back, trying to fight me on this decision but he _can't_, bellowing, "No, Tuber! No! You can't go!"

"Herb, don't touch me," I say harshly, because I'll look pathetic, unmanly, if I start crying now. If I cry, when they replay the reapings on TV tonight, they'll immediately peg me as a wimpy guy, an easy target. I need to look like a tough guy if I want to survive. "Don't touch me!"

I can feel someone grab Herb's hands to stop him from beating on me in protest again. I turn and see Galeina is dragging him away, and he's trying to yank his arm out of her grasp. "Up you go, Tuba," she says, and I can see she's trying not to cry – not that anybody would blame her, she's just a girl – and then she grabs Herb's wrist more tightly and pulls him back toward my father. I steel myself and climb the steps.

"Bravo, dude!" Eddie Trinket whoops, "That's the spirit of the Games!" He sounds like a guy watching a sporting match that just got interesting. "What's your name?"

I swallow hard. "Tuber Everdeen," I say.

"I bet my hat that was your little bro. Don't want him to look like the bigger man and get all the glory, huh? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big hand to our newest tribute!" hollers Eddie Trinket.

To the everlasting credit of District 12, nobody claps. Maybe because they know me from the Hob, or because they knew my mom, or because they've encountered Herb, who everybody loves. But no matter the reason, they've decided to risk the biggest public dissent possible. Silence. Which whispers, without a word, _This is wrong. We do not approve. _

Then, something I didn't expect happens. Or, at least, I didn't expect it because I know nobody in District 12 cares about a nobody guy like me. But by taking Herb's place, I've become….somebody. Somebody important. So one by one, people start pressing the three middle fingers of their hand to their lips and then holding them out to me. It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, sometimes used at funerals. It means thank you, it means admiration, it means goodbye to somebody you love.

And now I'm really worried I'm going to start crying and look like a wuss, but fortunately Haymiss chooses this moment to come staggering across the stage in the high heels somebody forced her into to congratulate me. "Look at this guy! Whattaguy!" she trills, pulling me into a sudden hug that I'm surprised I can't escape. She's stronger than she looks. "I like 'im!" Her breath reeks of cheap wine, and she isn't wearing perfume or lotion or anything, I don't think she's even bathed. "Lots of…." She can't think of a word for a while. "Guts!" she says triumphantly. "More than you!" she says, releasing me and heading for the front of the stage. "More than you!" she shrieks directly at the camera.

Is she addressing the audience or is she so drunk she might actually be taunting the Capitol? I'll never know, because just as she's opening her overrouged mouth to continue, Haymiss plummets ungracefully off the stage and knocks herself out. I think if it were any other woman but Haymiss, people would be concerned.

She's a gross skank, so nobody is, but I _am _grateful. With every camera gleefully trained on her and the cotton bloomers she's showing now that her derriere is up in the air, I have just enough time to release the small, choked sound in my throat and compose myself. I ball my hands into tight fists and stare off into the distance. I can see the hills I climbed this morning with Galeina. For a moment, I yearn for something…the idea of us leaving the district, making our way into the woods…but I know I was right about not running off. Because who else would've volunteered for Herb?

Haymiss is whisked away on a stretcher, and Eddie Trinket is trying to get the ball rolling again. "What an exciting day!" he hoots as he adjusts his tophat (made to match his suit) which has listed severely to the right. "But more excitement to come! It's time to select our girl tribute!" Putting one hand atop his hat to keep it from falling off, he dipped his other hand into the ball that contains the girls' slips and picks out the first one he touches. He zips back to the podium, and I don't even have time to pray for Galeina's safety before he's reading the name. "Torteeya Mellark."

Torteeya Mellark!

_Oh no, _I think. _Not her. _Because I recognize this name, even though I never spoken directly to its owner. Torteeya Mellark.

No, the odds are not in my favor today.

I watch her as she makes her way toward the stage. Medium height, curvy build, ashy blonde hair that falls in waves down her back. The shock of the moment is registering on her face, you can see her struggle not to look like a whimpering damsel, yet her blue eyes, made brilliant by glittering shadow, show the alarm I've seen so often in trapped animals. Yet she climbs steadily onto the stage and takes her place.

Eddie Trinket asks for volunteers, but nobody steps forward. She has two older sisters, I know, but one is too old to volunteer and the other isn't going to. This doesn't surprise me. Familial loyalty only goes so far on reaping day. What I did was the radical thing.

Madam Mayor starts reading the Treaty of Treason, like she does every year, but I'm not listening.

_Why her? _I think, but then I try to convince myself it doesn't matter. Torteeya Mellark and I are not friends. We're not neighbors. Our only real interaction happened years ago. She's probably forgotten it. But I haven't, and I know I never will….

It was during the worst time. My mom had died three months earlier in the mine accident, in the bitterest January anybody could remember. The numbness of the loss had passed, and now the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, making me choke back the urge to cry. _Where are you? _I'd scream inside my mind. _Where the hell did you go? _Of course, there was never any answer.

The district provided my dad with enough money to spend a month at home, mourning her. After that, he was supposed to get a job. Maybe finally become a miner, like he'd forced her to be. Or a healer, or a shopkeeper, or a farmer, or _anything_. Instead, he did absolutely _nothing_. He did nothing but sit around in a chair, or lay in his bed, and drink, or just stare into the distance. Once in a while, he'd stir, like he was going to get up, but he'd always just slump back down. No amount of screaming from Herb would change that.

I was terrified. Not only was my mom gone, but now, for all intents and purposes, my dad was, too. At eleven years old, with Herb just seven, I had to step up and become the man of the house. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market and tried to cook it the best I could, I tried to keep Herb clean and healthy and not looking like a total urchin. Because if it became known that my dad couldn't take care of us anymore, the district would put us in the community home. I'd seen the kids they sent there at school. They had black eyes and broken spirits. I could never let that happen to Herb. Sensitive little Herb who cried whenever he saw me gut a fish for dinner, who made sure my dad shaved every morning before he went to school, who still polished my mom's glass bottles of cosmetics every day because he hated the layers of coal dust that settled on everything in the Seam. The community home would crush him like a bug. So I kept our predicament a secret.

But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to death. No other way to put it. I kept telling myself that if I could just hang in there until May 8th, I'd turn twelve and be able to sign up for tesserae, earn us precious bread and oil. But my birthday was still weeks away. We'd be dead by then.

Starvation's not an uncommon fate in District 12. You see old people who can't work, kids from families with too many mouths to feed, miners injured on the job. You see them stagger through the streets until they collapse into a wall or the Meadow, and the Peacekeepers are called to retrieve their bodies. They always say "oh, a flu killed them", or "oh, they just had pneumonia", but they're not fooling anyone.

On the afternoon of my encounter with Torteeya Mellark, the rain was falling in icy sheets. I'd gone to the market to try and trade some old baby clothes of Herb's for food, but no dice. I'd been to the Hob with my mom before, but I was still too nervous to go in there by myself. A scrawny little guy like me might get beat up (Remember the stomach-puncher guy I mentioned earlier? Yeah. It's a legitimate concern). The rain had soaked through my mom's camo jacket, which I was still small enough to wear. For a week now we'd been living on nothing but boiled water with a few mint leaves in it I'd found at the back of a cupboard. I was so weak from hunger that I dropped the baby clothes. I didn't go back for them. Nobody wanted them anyway.

I couldn't go home to my dad, with the useless, far-away eyes, or my brother with the hollow cheeks and swollen belly. I couldn't tell them I wasn't man enough to provide for them.

I found myself wandering through the alley behind the shops catering to the wealthiest townspeople. Shopkeepers lived where they worked, so I guess I was trespassing in their backyards. I saw their soggy trashbins standing there in the rain.

Theft is a capital offense here in District 12, but whatever I could find in the garbage was fair game, right? Unfortunately, they'd just been emptied by the same garbage man who earlier had refused to give me a job on account of my age_._

When I passed the baker's, the smell of bread made my stomach growl like an angry dog. The back of the bakery radiated warmth on the cold day. Shivering, I drew closer, just to stand there and get warm for a second.

Suddenly a voice was screaming at me. The baker, telling me to get lost or he'd call the Peacekeepers on my ass. I started backing away, and that was when I saw her, a blonde girl peering out from behind her father's back. I'd seen her at school, but I didn't know her name. She always stuck with those snooty town kids, so how could I? Her dad went back into the bakery, but she must've been watching me as I walked past her pigpen and leaned against the old apple tree. The realization that I wasn't going to be able to provide for my family finally sunk in, and my knees buckled as I collapsed onto the tree's roots. It was too much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh so tired. _Let 'em call the Peacekeepers and take me to the community home, _I thought. _Or, better yet, just kill me now._

Then there was a clatter in the bakery and I heard a man hollering and the sound of a blow. I vaguely wondered what was going on. I heard somebody coming and I thought, _It's him, he's going to beat the stuffing out of me for not vacating the premises_. But it wasn't him. It was the girl. She carried two loaves of bread in her arms – I wondered how such a tiny girl was carrying such a heavy load, and I figured she'd burnt the bread because the crusts were black.

His dad was yelling, "Feed it to pig, you ditzy little bitch! Nobody decent's gonna buy burnt bread!"

She began to break chunks off and hurl them into the trough, and her dad went back inside to help a customer.

The girl never looked my way, but I was watching her, because of the bread, because of the red welt on her cheek. He'd hit her? My mom always taught me that guys should never hit girls. And she'd never raised a hand against me. The girl looked back at the bakery as if to check that the coast was clear, and then, still looking at the pigs instead of me, she tossed a loaf of bread in my direction. The second quickly followed, and then she skittered back to the bakery and slammed the door.

I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were just fine, except for the burnt parts. Were they really mine? Was she really just giving them to me? She had to be. She'd thrown them at me, hadn't she? I was surprised a girl could throw something so heavy that far. But without giving it another thought, I grabbed the loaves and stuffed them under the shirt, wrapped the camo jacket around me and ran swiftly away. The heat of the bread burned against my skin, but I clutched it ever tighter, clinging to it like a lifeline.

The loaves were cold on the outside when I finally got them home and threw them on the kitchen table, but Herb's hand immediately reached out for a chunk. I made him sit, forced my dad to join us at the table, and poured warm tea. I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread. We wolfed down a whole loaf in about a minute. It was good hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts.

I thew my clothes on the floor by the fire to dry, fell into bed, and collapsed into dreamless sleep. It didn't occur to me until the next morning that the girl might have burned the bread on purpose. Might have dropped them into flames, knowing it meant punishment, and then delivered it to me. But I dismissed this. Smart girls don't go looking for trouble. Besides, she didn't even know me. Still, just throwing the bread could have earned her a mark on the other cheek from her father, which I couldn't believe she'd risk for me. I couldn't explain her actions.

We ate more bread and headed to school. It seemed like spring had come overnight. Warm air and fluffy clouds. I passed the girl in the hall. She'd tried to cover up the bruises on her face with makeup, but I could still tell. She was with her friends and didn't even look at me. But as I collected Herb and headed home that afternoon, I saw her staring at me from across the schoolyard. I looked away, embarrassed, and that was when I saw the first dandelion of the year, and knew we were going to survive.

To this day, I can never shake the connection between Torteeya Mellark, and the bread that saved me, and the dandelion that showed me I wasn't doomed. And more than once, I've caught her glitter-lined eyes looking at me from across the hall, only to flit away. I feel like I owe her, and I hate owing people. Maybe I wouldn't feel like this if I'd been able to thank her, but I'd never gotten the chance. Now I never would, because we were going into the arena. My mom had told me never to hit a girl, but now I wouldn't just have to hit her…I'd have to _kill _her.

Madam Mayor finishes her speech and motions for me and Torteeya to shake hands. Her hands are as soft and warm as bread. She gives my hand what may have been a reassuring squeeze. Or maybe it was just a nervous spasm.

_Oh well, _I thought. _There are twenty four of us. Maybe some less chivalrous guy will strike her down before I have to. _

Of course, the odds haven't been very dependable as of late.


	3. Chapter 3

The Hunger Guy, Chapter 3

By: Storychan

**Hehe I did it….I snuck my copy of **_**The Hunger Games **_**out of the house when I came back from break. (It was actually really dramatic…I put the book in my suitcase, my dad took it back out, then I snuck it back in when he wasn't looking and hid it under a blanket….This kind of bookspionage just proves how important this fic is to me.)**

**Still, I've been back at school for awhile now and haven't had inspiration to update…I'm sorry about that. Fortunately for y'all, I got a review, and it brought my inspiration back! (Thank you, Percabeth 101!)**

**This time around, Tuber and Torteeya (I love writing those names XD) say goodbye to District 12 and head for the Capitol….**

**Enjoy, and don't forget to review!**

**-Storychan**

The moment the anthem ends, we're taken into custody. I mean, we're not handcuffed or anything, but a group of Peacekeepers marches us through the front door of the Justice Building. We don't try to escape. I don't think anyone ever has.

Once inside, I'm conducted into a room and then left alone in the richest surroundings I've ever seen. This place has plush carpets and a velvet couch and chairs. I know velvet because my dad has a tie made of the stuff. I can't help running my hand over the cushion as I prepare myself for the next hour. The time allotted for the tributes to say goodbye to their loved ones. I can't afford to get upset, to leave here looking like I've been crying like a chick. I'll look like a wuss for the cameras at the train station.

My brother and my father come first. I extend my arms to Herb and he immediately tackle-hugs me. He doesn't knock me over. He's not strong enough for that yet. My father stands beside me and puts an arm around my shoulder. For a few minutes, we say nothing. Then I start telling them all the things they must remember to do, now that I will not be there to do them for them.

Herb is not to take any tesserae. They can get by, if they're careful, on selling Herb, my little shepherd boy's, goat milk and cheese, and on the small druggist business my father now runs for the people of the Seam. Galeina will gather him the herbs he doesn't grow himself, but he must be careful to describe them because she's not as familiar with them as I am. She'll also bring them game – she and I made a pact about this about a year or so ago – and will probably not ask for compensation, but they should be gentlemen and thank her with some sort of trade, like milk or medicine.

I don't bother suggesting Herb learn to hunt. I tried to teach him a couple of times and it was a disaster. I tried to tell him real men don't cry, but he kept wailing that he didn't want to be a big hunting man, he wanted to be the animal's friend and kept talking about how he could heal it if we got it home fast enough. But he makes out well with the goat, so I focused on that.

When I'm done with instructions about fuel, and trading, and staying in school, I turn to my father and grab him by the shirt collar, making sure he's looking me in the eye. "Listen to me," I growl. "Are you listening?" He nods, apparently hoping I'm going to release him. I don't. "You need to man up this time," I say.

My father tries to look away. "I know. I will. Last time, I just couldn't help my-"

"Well, you have to help yourself this time. You can't just clock out and leave Herb on his own. I'm not going to be here to keep you alive, so you need to step up and be the man of the house for me. I don't care what happens. No matter what you see on that screen, you be a real man and you promise me you'll fight through it!" My voice has risen to a shout. In it is all the anger, all the disappointment I felt at his abandonment.

He grabs my fingers and unclenches them from the fabric of his shirt, moved to anger himself. I like him better aggressive. "I was ill," he barks. "I could've treated myself if I had what I have now."

The part about being ill might be true. I've seen him bring people back suffering from immobilizing sadness since. But even if it is a sickness, its one we can't afford.

"Then take it, and take care of him!" I demand.

"I'll be all right, Tuber," says Herb, clapping me on the shoulder. "But you have to take care, too. You're so fast and brave. Maybe you can win."

I can't win. Herb must know that, deep down. I'm a scrawny little guy, not particularly strong. Kids from wealthier districts, where winning is an honor, have been training their whole lives for this. Guys twice my size or more who are in the gym every day, who actually have muscles to flex, unlike me. The girls? They'll probably know how to kill me twenty different ways, too. I won't even have much physical advantage over them. There'll be people like me, too. People to weed out before the real fun begins.

"Maybe," I say, because I can hardly tell my father to face this like a man if I've already given up myself. Besides, it isn't in my nature to go down without a fight, even if the odds are insurmountable. "Then we'd be as rich as Haymiss."

"I don't care if we're rich. I just want you to come home. You'll try, won't you? Really, really try?" asks Herb.

"Really, really try. I swear it," I say. And I know, because of Herb, I'll have to.

And then the Peacekeeper is at the door, signaling our time is up, and I don't care how uncool it makes me look, I grab Herb and Dad and I hug them so hard it hurts and I tell them, "I love you. I love you both." And they say it back and then the Peacekeeper orders them out and the door closes. I bury my head in one of the velvet pillows as if this can block the whole thing out.

Someone else enters the room, and when I look up, I'm surprised to see it's the baker's wife, Torteeya Mellark's mother. I can't believe she's come to visit me. After all, I'll be trying to kill her daughter soon. But we do know each other a bit, and she knows Herb even better. When he sells his goat cheeses at the Hob, he puts two of them aside for her and she gives him a generous amount of bread in return, not caring what her mean husband, who baked it, thinks. We always wait to trade with her, when that jerk isn't around, because she's so much nicer. I feel certain she'd never hit her daughter the way he did over the burned bread. Sometimes I wonder if he hits her, too, and why she puts up with it. But why had she come to see me?

The baker's wife sits awkwardly on the edge of one of the plush chairs. She's wearing fancy clothes, like town women usually do, but she's curvy all over from years eating bakery cakes. She must have just said goodbye to her daughter.

She pulls a white paper package out of her purse and holds it out to me. I open it and find cookies. These are a luxury we can never afford.

"Thank you," I say. The baker's wife isn't a chatty lady at the best of times, and today she has no words at all. "I had some of your bread this morning. My friend Galeina gave you a squirrel for it." She nods, as if remembering the squirrel. "Not your best trade," I say. She shrugs as if it couldn't possibly matter.

Then I can't think of anything else, so we sit in silence until a Peacemaker summons her. She rises and coughs to clear her throat. "I'll keep an eye on the little guy. Make sure he's eating."

I feel some of the pressure in my chest lighten at her words. People deal with me, but they're genuinely fond of Herb. Maybe there will be enough fondness to keep him alive.

My next guest is also unexpected. Max walks straight to me. He's not one for chick flick moments, so he just gets right to the point. "They let you wear one thing from your district in the arena. One thing to remind you of home. This is yours if you'll take it, man." He holds out the circular gold pin that was on the lapel of his suit jacket earlier. I hadn't paid much attention before - what guy around here, other than Max, cares about clothes? – but now I see it's a small bird in flight.

"Your lapel pin?" I say. Wearing a token from my district is the last thing on my mind.

"Here, I'll just put it on your collar, alright?" Max doesn't wait for answer, he just leans in and sticks the bird to my vest. "Promise me you'll wear it to the arena, Tuber?" he asks. "Promise me, man?"

"Yes," I say. Cookies. A pin. I'm getting all kinds of gifts today. Max gives me one more. A big bear hug. Then he's gone and I'm left thinking Max really has been my buddy all along.

Finally, Galeina is here and maybe there's nothing romantic between us, but I find myself opening my arms for her and she rushes into them. Her body is familiar to me – the way it moves, the smell of wood smoke that she never even tries to hide with perfume or any girly crap like that, even the sound of her heart beating I know from quiet moments on a hunt – but this is the first time I really feel it, voluptuous and so soft against my own.

"Listen," she says. "Getting a knife should be pretty easy, but you've got to get your hands on a bow. That's your best chance."

"Yeah? And what if they don't have bows?," I say, thinking of the year there were only brutal spiked maces the tributes had to bludgeon each other with.

"Then make one," says Galeina. "Even a weak bow is better than no bow at all."

I've tried copying my mother's bows with poor results. It's not that easy. I have no idea how a little lady like her was able to do it.

"How do you even know there's going to be wood, huh?" I say, remembering another year where they tossed everybody into an arena of nothing but boulders and sand. I particularly hated that year. A bunch of tributes died from snakebites and dehydration.

"There's almost always wood," Galeina says. "Since half of them died of hypothermia that year. Not much entertainment value in that."

It's true. We spent one Hunger Games just watching players freeze to death. You could hardly see them, anyway, since there was no firelight. It was considered too anticlimactic in the Capitol. All those bloodless, undramatic deaths. Since then, there's usually been firewood.

"Yeah, there's usually some," I say.

"Tuber, it's just hunting. You're the best hunter I know," says Galeina.

"It's not just hunting. They're armed. They think," I say.

"So do you. And you've had more practice. Real practice. You know how to kill," she says. There's something unfeminine about just how blasé she is about it. But that's how Galeina is – straightforward. I know she's just trying to keep me alive.

"I don't know how to kill _people_," I say.

"How different can it be, really?" Galeina says grimly. Unlike most girls around here, she's never seen the point of subtlety. But…she's right. The awful thing is that if I can forget their people, it won't be much different at all.

The Peacekeepers are back too soon and Galeina begs for more time, but they're taking her away and I start to panic.

"Don't let them starve!" I cry, clinging to her little hand.

"I won't! You know I won't! Tuber, remember I-" she says, and they yank us apart and slam the door and I'll never know what she wanted me to remember.

It's a short ride from the Justice Building to the train station. I've never been in a car before. Rarely even driven wagons. In the Seam, we travel on foot.

I've been right not to cry. I'd look like a total nancy boy to the reporters with their insect-like cameras swarming the station. Most guys have trouble expressing their emotions, but I'm especially good at hiding mine. When I catch myself on the big screen airing the live feed, I'm proud to say I looked almost bored.

Torteeya Mellark, on the other hand, had obviously been crying. Her mascara was running down her cheeks and she didn't even seem to be trying to hide it. I wondered if this was part of her strategy. To look like this helpless damsel with no white knight to rescue her, like she was no competition at all…and then come out fighting. This worked very well for a boy, Johann Mason, from District 7 a few years back. He seemed like such a sniveling coward, a total pussy, that nobody even bothered to try and kill him until there were only a handful of contestants left. It turned out he could kill viciously. But this seems like an odd strategy for Torteeya Mellark because she's a baker's daughter. She's a big girl who's put on enough weight from a lifetime eating cookies that she could probably toss somebody around like dough. I've seen her in the bakery, hauling bread trays with her man-hands. It'll take a lot of weeping to convince anyone this girl is a fragile flower.

We have to stand outside for a few minutes while the cameras gobble up our images, but then they let us board the train and the doors close mercifully behind us. The train takes off immediately, and the speed makes me jump at first. Of course I've never ridden a train before. Travel is a crime around here, so the only trains I see in the Seam are for carrying coal. But this is no coal train – this is a fancy Capitol model that can go 250 mph. We'll reach our destination in a day.

They tell me in school that the Capitol stands where the Rockies used to be, and District 12 used to be something called Appalachia. They mined coal back then, too. Most of our education is about coal. I know there's some information about Panem's history that they're not telling us, but it's not like knowing the truth would help me put more food on the table.

The tribute train is even swankier than the Justice Building. I get my own bedroom, dressing area, and bathroom with hot and cold running water. Back home, the only hot water we get is the kind we boil ourselves.

There are drawers filled with fancy clothes, and Eddie Trinket tells me I can do and wear whatever I want, as long as I'm ready for supper in an hour. I peel off the blue vest, shirt, and slacks I'd borrowed from my father and take a hot shower. I'd never had a shower before. It felt like standing in the rain, only warmer. I put on a dark green button-down shirt and pants.

At the last minute, I remember Max's little gold lapel pin. For the first time, I take a good look at it and I realize it's supposed to be a mockingjay.

They're funny birds that really piss the Capitol off. See, they started off as jabberjays – a kind of animal we call _muttations_ that were created by the Capitol. They were spies, capable of repeating any treasonous conversations they heard right back to their masters. Once we realized that, we started feeding them lies. Then the Capitol left them to die off in the wild. But they didn't - they mated with mockingbirds and created a new species the Capitol never saw coming: mockingjays, that could repeat songs _and _words.

They're cute little birds, I guess. My mother really loved them – she would sing whole songs, like Snow White or something, and they'd sing them right back to her. They didn't do that for everyone, but Mom? She had the voice of an angel. I couldn't bring myself to sing to the birds without her after she was gone. Still, there's something comforting about the bird. It makes me feel like a piece of my mother is here with me, watching over me. I fasten the pin to my starched collar, and the green fabric background makes me feel like the little bird could be singing in the trees back home.

Eddie Trinket comes and fetches me for dinner, leads me to a table full of china that looks very breakable. Torteeya Mellark is there waiting for me, the chair next to her empty.

"Where's Haymiss?" asks Eddie Trinket brightly.

"Last time I saw her, she told me she was going to go catch up on her beauty sleep," says Torteeya. I doubt any amount of rest could make Haymiss beautiful.

"Well, it has been an exhausting day," says Eddie Trinket. I think he's relieved at Haymiss' absence, and I can't really blame him.

The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a chocolate cake. Eddie Trinket keeps telling me to save room for more, but I've never had food so good and so much and hey, I'm a growing boy. I need to try and bulk up before the Games begin.

"At least you eat like a gentleman," Eddie says to me. "I consider being a gentleman very important in today's society. The boy from last year had no class at all, and the girl was no lady. They kept eating with their hands like savages."

The boy and girl from last year were from the Seam and had never had enough to eat for one day in their entire lives. Torteeya was a baker's daughter, and my father taught me the classy way to eat with a knife and fork "like a young man". But I hate Eddie Trinket's comment so much that I make a point to eat with my hands for the rest of the meal. That really pissed him off.

Now that the meal's over, I'm fighting to keep it all down, and I notice Torteeya is looking as green as her dress. Neither of us are used to rich food, but I tell myself if I can eat what Greasy Sam cooks and not puke then I can handle this.

We go to the other room to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem, to get a good look at our competition. A few faces stand out. A total Amazon chick who lunges forward to volunteer from District 2. A fox-faced guy with shaggy red hair from District 5. Some poor girl with a crippled foot from District 10. And the one that really got to me: a twelve-year-old boy from District 11. He has dark brown skin and eyes, but other than that, his size and demeanor remind me a lot of Herb. When they call for volunteers, nobody steps in for him. There's nobody there to take his place.

Last of all, they show District 12. Herb being called, me running forward to volunteer. You can't miss the desperation in my voice as I shove Herb behind me, scared they're not going to hear me. But, of course, they do. I see Galeina pulling him off me and then myself mounting the stage. The commentators aren't sure what to make of the silent salute. They mutter something about the charm of the district's quaint customs. As if on cue, Haymiss tumbles off the stage and they laugh. Torteeya's name is drawn, and she quickly takes her place. We shake hands. They play the anthem, and the program ends.

Eddie Trinket is grumbling about his hat not looking right on camera. "Your mentor has a lot to learn about decorum and etiquette. Especially on TV," he says.

"Haymiss?" Torteeya unexpectedly laughs. "She was white-girl wasted, like every year."

"Every day," I add. I can't help smirking a little. Eddie Trinket makes it sound like Haymiss is one tutoring session at his charm school away from being a debutante.

"Yes," jeers Eddie Trinket. "How odd you two find it so _cute_. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, charms the sponsors into giving you gifts, and dictates their presentation. Little Miss Haymiss could well be the difference between your life and your death!"

Just then, Haymiss staggers into the compartment. "I miss supper, darlin'?" she slurs. Then she tries to hold her hair back as she vomits onto the carpet, but winds up tripping over her high heels and tumbling into the mess. Classy.

"So laugh away!" says Eddie Trinket. He hops in his well-shined dress shoes around the pool of vomit and flees the room.


End file.
